


Extra Lime, No Ice

by Chiennoir



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio), Supernatural
Genre: Awkward Romance, Crossover, F/M, Humor, Mild Language, Romance, Science Fiction, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-04-05 16:47:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14048568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiennoir/pseuds/Chiennoir
Summary: Susan Foreman Campbell is no stranger to the bizarre. Having chosen a quiet spot in South Dakota to recover from the deaths of her husband and son, she finds herself at the center of increasingly violent attacks that her knowledge of science cannot explain away. Fearing for her life, she seeks out a hunter for help.





	1. Susan

_"She wrapped herself up in an enigma._ _T_ _here was no other way to keep warm." Karen Elizabeth Gordon_

* * *

 

She had come into the bar every night at the same time for about a week. She sat at the same table with her back to the corner, drinking the same thing — gin and tonic with extra lime and no ice. She'd nurse her drink for a couple of hours, then slap a tip on the table and leave without saying a word. No one knew where she went after that. No one cared.

But tonight was different. Tonight her eyes scanned the room over the rim of her glass. Her fingers beat a little tattoo on the tabletop, and she shifted slightly in her seat as if she were trying to make up her mind whether or not to do something.

Bobby Singer had noticed the woman right away. She was the kind of person who could disappear seamlessly into a crowd. Average height, average build. Sensible wire-rimmed glasses. Just the other side of forty, he guessed. Shoulder-length dark hair that conveniently hid her face when she wanted it to.

She caught him looking at her, and slowly lowered her eyes. With her finger, she wrote in the condensation on her glass and made a point of turning it for him to see.

_Hi._

Bobby shifted in his seat, looked around, and mouthed "Who, me?"

The woman nodded, and motioned to the chair next to her. Bobby took the seat opposite, making sure he could see the door in the mirror behind her, and she could see the biggish knife he was carrying at his hip. She'd had him pegged as a checkers player, but damned if he wasn't playing chess. Her hand closed around the handle of the screwdriver in her pocket.

"Dunno about you, but I could use another round. What you drinkin'?"

"Gin and tonic. Extra lime, no ice."

English accent. Interesting. Bobby filed that observation away with the others, followed by a question mark. "Be right back." He picked up her glass and headed for the bar. As he waited for their drinks, he watched her out of the corner of his eye. She glanced at her watch, smoothed her hair, fiddled with her phone. Pretty normal stuff.

"Shit," she said, turning the glass in her hand. "I thought I said 'no ice.'"

"You got something against ice?"

"You have something against manners?"

"You can't be too careful in here, sweetheart."

"What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?" She put the glass down and glared at it, then at Bobby.

"You're not from around here, are you?"

"You have no idea," she scoffed, scooping the ice from her drink with a spoon and dropping it into Bobby's glass. "It dilutes the gin." She looked him straight in the eye as she took a long sip. He watched her closely. Nothing happened.

"Point made. And now I've got gin in my bourbon."

"Serves you right for being an asshole, whatever-your-name-is."

"Bobby. Bobby Singer," he extended his hand.

"Susan Campbell," she replied, one hand on her drink and the other firmly planted in her pocket.

Campbell. This could get complicated. "Any relation to the Kansas Campbells?"

"Doubt it. Campbell is my married name. My husband was from London."

"Was?"

"David was a good man," she sighed. "After he died I couldn't imagine being in London without him. The kids were grown and scattered to the winds, so I had nothing to keep me there. I did some traveling. Eventually the money ran out and I needed a job. So I landed here."

"Sorry for your loss," Bobby replied. "So, is that why you're looking for a hunter?"

"I don't recall saying that."

"You didn't. There's only two reasons strangers come in here. They either want us to hunt something horrifying, or they  _are_  something horrifying that wants to hunt  _us_.

Susan smiled a little. "I see. I show up unannounced with a funny accent and a taste for gin, and you think I'm a monster."

"Well," Bobby laughed, "they don't sell a lot of gin in here. Even with ice. Sorry about that, by the way. Here, give me your hand."

"What? I..."

"If I'm gonna help you, you need to know a few things." He picked a cube of ice from his glass. "And you can loosen your death grip on that gun, knife, whatever it is you're packin'. I ain't gonna bite you."

"Screwdriver." She smirked. She held out her hand.

Bobby dropped the ice into Susan's palm. "See what happened there?"

She shot him an impatient look. "Wow, a solid can turn into a liquid when heat is applied. Who knew? Can we get out of primary school and on to the point here?"

"The ice is made from holy water. If you were a demon, it would have burned you. Your spoon there? It's sterling silver. Shapeshifters, werewolves, things like that? They'd react to it. And salt...lots of things can't tolerate salt. Particularly ghosts." He picked up the salt shaker from the table and tipped a bit into her palm.

"Demons? Ghosts? That's what you're hunting? Those things aren't real...are they?"

"You're not a believer?"

"I'm a scientist."

"Really? Theoretical?"

"I suppose you'd call it 'educational.'"

"A professor, then."

"Not exactly. I edit physics textbooks for a publishing company. God, that sounds so dull."

Bobby chuckled. "Huh. And all this time I was thinkin' chemistry teacher."

Susan took a deep breath and finally relaxed a bit. "I deserved that," she smiled. "I've got 'hopeless nerd' written all over my face, haven't I?"

"Pretty much, yeah. But it's a nice face." And he meant it. While not beautiful in the conventional sense, he found her quite attractive. She had large, intelligent gray eyes, and regular features with a vaguely foreign cast. He couldn't put his finger on what made her so different. He only knew he liked whatever it was.

She blushed and took back her hand. "Awkward."

"Pretty much, yeah." Bobby raised his glass. "Cheers."


	2. Smoke and Mirrors

"So," Susan drained her glass. "I think you know my friend Emily. She works in Special Collections at the university library."

"Yeah," said Bobby. "I know her. Nice kid. Smart. Really knows her stuff."

"Smart? She's brilliant. I've been helping her with her Master's thesis. Anyway, we were getting a coffee a couple of weeks ago, and I was telling her about some odd experiences I've been having. You know how something can really be bothering you, and once you tell someone else, it all seems kind of ridiculous? Well, it was like that. I was sure she'd tell me it was all in my head and nothing to worry about. But she kept insisting you could help me. She told me you'd know what to do."

"What kind of experiences are we talkin' about?"

"That's the problem. I'm not sure what I've actually experienced, and what I haven't. At first I thought it was just my imagination. I've been working late on a particularly boring project, and thought I was just overtired. You know, eyestrain or something. I keep having this feeling that someone's watching me."

"Any odd smells? Like sulphur? Ozone? Or smoke?"

"No, nothing like that. But all week I've been seeing something move out of the corner of my eye. When I turn to look at it, there's nothing. And it's not only that, now. I see shadows in the windows, and mirrors fog up for no reason. My phone will ring, I'll answer, and no one will be there -- just a lot of static. The more I try to ignore it, the worse it gets."

"Sounds like something's tryin' to get your attention."

"Yes, exactly. That's what Emily said. I came here every night, but couldn't bring myself to talk to anyone. The whole thing seemed so vague. I was afraid you'd think I was being silly."

"I know just about everyone who comes in here on a regular basis. Pretty lady like you, drinkin' alone in the corner? I couldn't help but notice something like that. When you didn't speak up, I figured you were waitin' for some idjit that didn't have the good sense to know what he was missing."

Susan smirked. "No, I'm between idjits at the moment."

"That's probably wise," Bobby replied.

She laughed, and her eyes met his for a brief moment. He couldn't decide whether to kick himself for flirting with her, or pat himself on the back because it worked.

"I'm guessin' something happened that made you change your mind," he ventured.

"Of course I changed my mind," Susan scoffed. "They were idiots."

"No, I meant...you know...talkin' to me. About...hunting things."

"Oh." Susan was mortified. She stared into her empty glass, as if a cure for embarrassment might be lurking at the bottom amongst the limes. "Oh, my God. I can't believe I just said that. Stupid."

"It's fine," Bobby chuckled. "Now that each of our mouths has a foot in it, we're even."

"So," she took a deep breath. "Things. What do you need to know?"

"Let's start with everything that changed between 'vague' and tonight."

"Well, there's this," Susan pushed up her sleeve and unwound a length of gauze, revealing several deep, jagged lacerations on her wrist and forearm.

"Damn. I wouldn't call that vague. What happened?"

"I was typing away on my laptop this afternoon, when the screen started going all wonky. It had been a shitty day at work anyway, and that kind of put the cap on it. That's all I needed, right? Some computer glitch ruining a week's worth of unbelievably tedious rubbish. So I went to get a memory stick out of my briefcase to back up my files. When I came back, I noticed that my coffee had gone stone cold. It was really odd. I'd refreshed it not five minutes before, yet it wasn't even warm. I thought I'd pop it in the mic and warm it up again. The instant I picked it up, the cup broke - no, that's not right. More like exploded. Right in my hand."

"Let me see," he said, gently taking her arm. The cuts were quite fresh, still oozing blood. Nasty, to be sure, but nothing particularly unusual, beyond the obvious force with which the broken shards had met flesh. What interested Bobby the most was a pale, angry welt across the base of her fingers - in the exact spot where the handle of a coffee cup would rest. "Did this happen at the same time?"

"It must have," Susan replied with a shrug. "I didn't even notice it, to be honest. Too busy dealing with all the blood, I suppose."

"Does it hurt?"

Susan flexed her fingers. "Not at all. It's kind of numb."

"That's an ice burn," his eyes brightened. "I think I know what's been following you."

"Really?" She squinted at the seemingly innocuous injury. "You can tell from one little blister?"

"Yep," he said triumphantly. "I'm pretty sure we're dealing with a ghost."

"A ghost. Like the... um... ethereal residue of a dead person?"

"Yep. Not sure what kind, exactly, but it's a start."

"Oh, lovely. There are different _kinds_ now?" Susan was having a hard time wrapping her mind around the concept, but Bobby seemed to know what he was doing. "And you can get rid of it? How do you kill someone who's already dead?"

"It's more like sending 'em back to wherever they're supposed to be. Depends on who they were and why they're here."

"Can you take care of it, then? I'll just sit here and bleed." She blotted her arm with a cocktail napkin.

"Oh, shit. I'm sorry. Wasn't thinkin'. Let me get you another bandage." Bobby went behind the bar and found a first aid kit.

"You really ought to have that stitched up," he suggested. "I'll drive you to the ER if you want."

"I'm fine," she said dismissively. "Not a big fan of doctors." She watched with mild detachment as he dressed her wounds. "Well, Bobby Singer," she said, "what can you tell me about ghosts?"


	3. Ghost in the Machine

_"Now slip, now slide, now move unseen,_

_Above, beneath, betwixt, between."  - Neil Gaiman_

* * *

 

It was just a miscalculation. One second earlier or later, one step to the left or the right, and he would have lived to see to the bomb go off as planned - from a distance. But it wasn't to be. And it was all his fault.

The searing flash of light and heat had caught him off guard, and the brief stab of pain even more so. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. He was rash, careless, a failure.  

_What a stupid way to die._

He felt himself falling, spinning at sickening speed through a soundless void, helpless against the centrifugal force that threw him into unseen walls. Time itself seemed to be stretching, shrinking, spiraling out of control.

When he finally landed on solid ground, his whole being ached with a dull, grinding pain that seemed to radiate out in all directions. His eyes tried in vain to adjust to the complete absence of light.

_Isn't there supposed to be a light?_

He staggered to his feet, trying to find traction on the hard, slippery surface. Eventually he stumbled into a cold, smooth vertical wall, which he found he could use to hold himself upright as he inched along. He continued this way for a long time, finally coming to a dead end. He couldn't go forward, he refused go back.

He sank to the floor in despair. He pounded the wall with his fists over and over, uttering a long, voiceless scream. The wall rippled with the vibration, bowed inward, outward, and finally shattered, sending him into free fall. Again he landed hard, amid thousands of glittering black shards. He felt blood dripping from the arm he'd raised to shield his face. 

_Should there be blood?_

He tried unsuccessfully to stand. His feet kept crunching and slipping on the broken fragments, and his legs simply didn't have the strength to hold him. His head was spinning, generating random nonsense in an effort to remain conscious.

_θi=θr_

He collapsed, exhausted, holding his aching head in his hands, trying to make sense of whatever it was his mind kept repeating.

_θi=θrθi=θrθi=θrθi=θrθi=θrθi=θr_

_Wait a minute. Slow down._

_theta sub i equals theta sub r_

He picked up one of the smooth black shards, turning it in his hand and noticing the slight glint of a reflection on its surface.

_the angle of incidence is equal to the angle of reflection_

Of course. In order for light to be reflected off a surface, there must be a source of light. He turned the fragment until the reflection was as clear as he could get it, turned his eyes upward, and there it was. A dull glow in the distance. He pulled himself along the floor until he found the vertical wall again, and willed himself to stand. He worked his way along the corridor, step by painful step, gaining strength as he went. The distant light grew brighter, gradually being joined by an ominous, reverberating sound.

Soon there was no more need to follow the walls with his hands. There was only the light and a calm, distorted voice whispering out of the darkness.

_"Kill her."_


	4. Circling the Wagons

_"You say you don't believe in ghosts? Some people can't see the color red. That doesn't mean it isn't there." - Sue Grafton_

* * *

"Ghosts aren't really all that complicated," said Bobby, extracting a shotgun from the trunk of his car and stuffing some shells into his pockets. "Though they can be nasty sons of bitches. Here, take these." He handed Susan a crowbar and a length of rusty chain.

"What's all this for?"

"Iron won't kill 'em, but it'll buy you some time," he replied, adding an EMF meter and a ten-pound bag of salt to her collection. "All right, then. I think that's all we need for now."

Susan struggled to get a better hold on the assortment of objects, finally dropping the EMF meter into her pocket, tucking the crowbar and chain under her arm, and cradling the bag of salt like a baby. She peered into the trunk. "Is that a grenade launcher?"

"Just a little one," Bobby shrugged and closed the lid. He put the shotgun in the back seat and opened the passenger side door for her.

Susan hesitated.  _There isn't enough gin in the world to make this look normal,_  she thought.

"Oh, sorry. That stuff's probably getting kind of heavy." Bobby took the salt and the chain from her and placed them on the floorboard. He reached for the crowbar.

"Uh-uh," she tightened her grip on the iron bar. "I'm getting into a shitty old Chevelle with an arsenal in the boot, next to a marginally intoxicated man I've only known for an hour and a half. I'm holding on to this."

"I...um..." Bobby opened his mouth to protest, then realized she was absolutely right. He shook his head and settled into the driver's seat. "I got nothin'," he chuckled. "So, where are we headed? Ghosts tend to be attached to a particular place."

"My office, I suppose," Susan replied. "It's on Jefferson Street, next to the bank."

"That's where the coffee cup exploded?"

"Yes."

Bobby turned the key in the ignition and the old car sputtered to life, coughed once for spite, and pulled out into the street.

They drove along in silence, Susan tapping her fingers on the armrest like she always did when she was nervous. They passed the university campus and turned in to the parking lot of a nondescript strip mall. At the end of the row of businesses was a small, lighted sign that read "Pearson-Smith Publishing House."

"Huh," Bobby said. "This building hasn't been here very long. Not exactly prime real estate for ghosts, but it's as good a place to start as any."

"Pull around to the back," Susan said, then thought better of it when she saw the space was already occupied by a battered white van. "Damn it. The janitor's in. We'll have to wait for him to leave."

The Chevelle ground to a halt under a tree behind the building. The back door of the office was propped open with a gallon can of paint, and the faint sound of smooth jazz drifted out. Bobby quietly got the gun out of the car and loaded it with a salt-filled round. "Once more into the breach," he muttered.

"Bobby? Bobby Singer?" A tall, thin man appeared at the door.

"Oh, hey, George," said Bobby, tucking the shotgun behind his back and sneaking it back onto the seat. He walked toward the building.

"I'd know the sound of that old rustbucket a mile away," George grinned. "How the hell are you?"

"I'm gettin' by. You know how it is. How 'bout yourself?"

"Can't complain," said George. The men shook hands and clapped each other on the shoulder.

Susan sat very still in the front seat of the car, trying not to panic.

George steered Bobby toward the door. "I'm glad you're here, man. Come and take a look at this. It looks like a crime scene in there."

"What happened? Somebody break in? I don't see any windows broken." Bobby tried to stall, glancing back at the Chevelle. He made a surreptitious motion that was supposed to mean  _follow my lead._  Susan took it to mean  _I'm drowning here, get out of the car and help me improvise._

The car door creaked and slammed. "Hi, George!" Susan waved. "You're here early."

 _Balls,_ thought Bobby.

"Susan? Are you okay? I was just about to call the police. There's blood all over the place."

"Oh," she laughed nervously, flashing the bandage on her arm. "I broke a coffee cup. Cut myself really badly and had to go get it looked after. Sorry about the mess."

"No problem. I'm just glad you're all right. I came in and saw your laptop and briefcase still here, and all that blood. I was worried," said George. "Hey, where's your truck?"

"My truck?" Susan stammered. "Oh. My truck. I went for a drink after the hospital...to...you know...calm down. When I got back in the truck...it...um..."

"Wouldn't start," said Bobby. "Alternator."

"Yes, that," Susan nodded. "Bobby offered to give me a ride and fix the battery..."

"The alternator..." Bobby corrected.

"Fix the  _alternator_ in the morning." Susan shot him an irritated look and headed for the door. "I'll just go and fetch my things now. I need to get home."

George wasn't buying it. Bobby knew George wasn't buying it, so he changed the subject.

"Hey, George, you haven't seen anything weird going on in there lately, have you?"

"Not any weirder than what's going on out here," George smirked.

"Seriously, man. Cold spots? Funny smells, anything like that?"

"So that's what this is about. Still looking to make something outta nothing, I see," George lit a cigarette and took a long drag. "I'll believe in monsters when I see one, you know?"

"That's fair," said Bobby. "I hope you never have the pleasure."

"Come to think of it, the lights in the lobby do blink on and off sometimes. And the heat kicks on for no reason. But it's a new building, and built on the cheap to boot. That's not weird, that's just shitty construction."

"Could be."

They watched as Susan emerged from the building, her laptop bag slung over her shoulder.

"Hey, if it gets you the girls, who cares, right?" George blew a smoke ring and elbowed Bobby in the ribs. "Better get going. Looks like she's in a hurry."

Susan plucked the cigarette from George's lips as she swept past, and ground it under her heel. "Those things'll kill you, George."

Bobby stood speechless for a moment, then followed her to the car.

"Get a room, you two," George laughed. He balanced another cigarette on his lower lip and lit it. He tossed the match on the ground and went back inside.

The security camera at the back of the building shuddered a bit, its lens frosting over and cracking with a muffled pop. It recorded the match as it flared, sputtered, and went out. That was the last thing it would ever see.


	5. Vindice Exspiravit

"The mirror breaks. I gasp awake. He's here."

\- Tony Barnstone

* * *

_"Kill her."_

The voice swirled around him like thick black smoke. It pounded a relentless drumbeat behind his eyes, sending waves of searing pain rippling through his body. It went beyond sound and into substance, grabbing at his arms and legs and sending him stumbling toward the distant glow.

As he neared the source of the light, the pain began to fade. His mind cleared. He began to sense changes in temperature, variations of light, the presence of objects and movement beyond the smooth black walls.

This new type of body fascinated him. He raised his arm, or what should be an arm, but wasn't quite. He flexed his hand, noticing that it not only reflected but refracted light. He was moving through space but also intertwined with it. He had form, shape, and awareness, but also seemed apart from all that, as if he were watching himself from a great distance.

_And time. Where was time?_

Perhaps he had left it behind in that swirling abyss with the rest of his mistakes. Had he been here forever, or had he just arrived? As memory began to creep back into his consciousness, he realized that time had lied to him, cheated him, led him to believe his life's purpose was something other than it was. That  _he_ was something other than he was. But that didn't matter anymore. Now he appeared to have all the time in the world. Time to set things right, perhaps.

It was all connected somehow - the flash, the fall, the urgent sense of purpose that picked him up off the floor and drove him onward toward...what? He had to keep moving toward the light. The voice insisted.

_Whose voice?_

There was only one way to find out.

_Aren't all the answers supposed to be in the light?_

The corridor twisted, telescoped, then narrowed in front of him. Dead end. The voice stabbed at the back of his mind, joined by other voices from beyond the barrier.

No, not a barrier. Transparent. A convex curve.

_A window?_

He peered out, his mind automatically running a calculation:

_(1/ Object distance) + (1/Image distance) = 1/Focal Length_

_Of course! Camera._

He stepped closer and reached out his hand. Filaments of electricity tingled and danced along his arm. Tiny crystals of ice began to trace a delicate pattern on the glass. His vision became more acute as he willed the camera to move. Vague human forms, one of them familiar, moved close to him in the semidarkness, their shapes distorted by the wide-angle lens. Other shapes conversed, concealed in the shadow of a black SUV in the trailer park across the street.

"It's too late. They're leaving."

"Trust me, they'll be back."

"What are we supposed to do? Wait here all night?"

"We must get hold of that key, do you hear me? Preferably with the woman attached."

"And if she doesn't comply?"

"Kill her."

 _No, you won't._ Suddenly aware of his objective, Alex smashed his hand through the glass. The rest of him followed, along with a rush of icy air.

The light collapsed on itself, coalesced into a tiny flickering flame, and died.


End file.
